


it's alright, it's okay (and i believe that you will see a better day)

by hydrangeasheart



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abusive Relationship, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Starvation, References to self-harm, Sickfic, Touch-Starved, a tiny bit of a vent fic, i am hyperfixated thank you for asking, idk how to tag this tommy's sick and techno is taking care of him, it's wilbur ofc, technoblade is a good brother, very minor though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:01:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28038831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hydrangeasheart/pseuds/hydrangeasheart
Summary: “You’re awake?”Tommy can’t talk. His throat hurts too badly, and he doesn’t know what it would even sound like if he tried. But he manages a tiny nod. Even that makes his temples throb.“That’s good,” The hand on his shoulder slides up, running through his slightly damp hair. “I’ll get you some potions and food in a minute. How are you feelin’?”It clicks into place with sharp clarity; that’sTechnoblade.
Relationships: But not in a good way - Relationship, Clay | Dream & TommyInnit, Dave | Technoblade & TommyInnit, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), they're best friends!!
Comments: 63
Kudos: 1817





	it's alright, it's okay (and i believe that you will see a better day)

**Author's Note:**

> first published fic in a new fandom how are we FEELING 
> 
> tommy's current arc is making me Feel Things and i am always on my Techno Is A Good Brother agenda so i wrote this (not so) little thing. i wanted to write something more plot-heavy and serious but it's kind of hard to write y'know.
> 
> warnings (i know i did tags but i'm used to doing warnings too): all the warnings you'd get from tommy's current arc; depression, themes of manipulation and abuse, general Ungood Mental Health times. tommy's sick in this sickfic, lmao. there's one reference to self-harm and suicide respectively. and also a few platonic kisses. no shipping here just tommy getting taken care of.
> 
> i havent posted anything on ao3 in a while because of personal issues, but everywhere else sucks for posting fic whoops
> 
> edit: i forgot to say the title is from it's alright by mother mother. i am booboo the fool.

When Tommy comes to, his whole body feels like it’s made of straw. Especially his head. It feels like someone took out his brain and replaced it with wool, packed tightly inside his aching, hot skull.

He cracks his eyes open to try to see where he is. The room is lit with low, mellow torchlight, and it doesn’t look like the surroundings he has become used to. Something about it is familiar, oddly. He has no idea where he is.

He should be more alarmed, but his head hurts and he feels too light, like he hasn’t eaten in days. Maybe he hasn’t. He can’t remember the last time he ate, honestly.

He’s in a bed, softer and plusher than his own makeshift cot, and he’s draped under several blankets. The one closest to his face has some kind of fur trim on it, and it feels very soft and smells nice. Familiar, yet again.

In the room, somewhere, a door opens. Footsteps cross a wooden floor, and he hears metal clink softly on the same material. Even the quiet sounds hurt his head.

He squirms lower, under the covers. The blanket with the fur trim presses up against his cheek, pressing up against his ears. 

“You’re awake?” That voice is equally familiar. Deep, careful. Comforting. Not Dream, surely…

A weight settles on the edge of his bed, causing the mattress to dip, and a hand rests on his shoulder through the heavy cover.

Tommy can’t talk. His throat hurts too badly, and he doesn’t know what it would even sound like if he tried. But he manages a tiny nod. Even that makes his temples throb.

“That’s good,” The hand on his shoulder slides up, running through his slightly damp hair. “I’ll get you some potions and food in a minute. How are you feelin’?”

It clicks into place with sharp clarity; that’s  _ Technoblade _ . He’s laying in some soft bed under soft blankets and he’s obviously sick and not  _ alone  _ anymore and  Technoblade , his _brother_ , is petting back his hair.

He’s dreaming. It’s not real. He’s had these dreams before, even before he was exiled. Dreams of soft and happy things, old memories, and desires tinged with sepia.

(He’s had several variations of those kind of dreams.

A day in a flowery, sunny field with Tubbo, holding hands and having a picnic. Arguing over something with no heat until his friend gets fed up and tackles him back into the grass, tickling him until he cries for mercy and then some. Packing up and sitting on their bench, listening to his disks. Resting his head on top of Tubbo’s, their hands intertwined on the wood. As the sun sets, and the music winds down, he presses a kiss to his friend’s forehead.

Listening to Wilbur playing the guitar and quietly singing one of his newly-written songs, stopping at one point to let Tommy take over. His smile fond and warm and real when his voice cracks. Insisting he can teach him a few chords, setting his guitar on his lap, guiding his hands to the right positions. Praising him when he got it right, making his face burn with pride.

Every variation of carefree playing with his friends. Building and laughing and playfully fighting, no war and no trauma. 

The earlier days of his time with his family, when they were still all together, all the time. Something quiet and relaxed. Techno laying sideways in the armchair with his glasses on and a book in his hands. Wilbur writing in one of his notebooks, running his fingers through Tommy’s hair as he rests his head on his lap. Philza watching them fondly, pride and adoration in his eyes, like he’s never seen anything better.

(He’s even had a few dreams like that about Dream, of all people. His only friend for months. Dreams about what it would be like to be his friend in a slightly more  _ normal  _ way. Maybe he could have been like another brother to him.)

(Maybe… maybe he’s finally killed himself, and this is the last thing he’s allowed to think about?)

(He doesn’t want to think about that.)

He’s not about to waste the happy moment, though. He manages to turn his head enough to look up at Techno.

He has his hair pulled back in a high ponytail, the uneven strands of his bangs hanging down to frame his face, complete with the thick-framed glasses he hasn’t seen him wear in years. They have tape wrapped around the bridge. He has a new scar, along his chin, and one of his tusks looks slightly more crooked than before. His jewelry almost seems to glow in the warm lighting, but maybe that’s just the fever.

“My head hurts,” Tommy complains weakly. His voice sounds awful even to his own ears, like nails on a chalkboard. Ugh.

His smile is a subtle thing, but it’s definitely there. His expression is overall soft, further proof that this is a dream. 

Techno stopped looking that  _ soft  _ back when he was a teenager, when something changed and he suddenly didn’t smile anymore, didn’t laugh as much (and even then, only deep chuckles that made his hair raise or the hysterical laughter of a man gone mad with bloodlust) and definitely didn’t look at Tommy with fondness and softness anymore, like he had for the past seven years. 

It had hurt to see the change, but at least it wasn’t just him. Techno shut everyone out, even dad--  _ Phil _ . Sometime after his eighteenth birthday, he had left, and Tommy hadn’t seen him for years. The only confirmation he had that he was even alive was the fact that he still occasionally visited Wilbur, and Phil too. Tommy always just missed him, out with Tubbo or Purpled or just  _ alone _ .

It feels good regardless, to be looked at with such kindness. 

“Not gonna bore you with the details, but you’re not doin’ well, kid.” His hand doesn’t cease in Tommy’s hair. He wonders why it doesn’t hurt his head-- instead, it feels really good. He feels small, but not in a bad way. It isn’t like how small Dream made him feel; that was bad, that  _ hurt _ , that made him feel weak and useless. 

Techno’s carding through his hair makes him feel  _ young _ , something he almost forgot what felt like. He feels like a teenager with way too much weight placed on his shoulders, like a child who needs to be held. 

“You think you can sit up?” He asks. His petting only ceases for his thumb to brush along his hairline. 

Tommy feels even weaker at the gesture; that’s Phil’s thing, that’s something he’d done for all three of them when upset or sick. He can distinctly remember their father’s thumb rubbing along his hairline when he had a horrible cold, when he was still very small. It isn’t exactly the same with Techno; the pad of his thumb is calloused differently, and he keeps his nails longer, so he can feel his thumbnail brush his skin. But it’s still something undeniably learned from him, and it makes him want to cry. 

He forces another nod, so Techno helps him into a sitting position on the bed. The blankets fall off his shoulders and he immediately feels colder. His brother grabs the top blanket and drapes it around his shoulders, and he’s suddenly aware of what it is. 

It’s his cape. The red one, the one he’s had since his sixteenth birthday. It had been a well-loved gift. 

He remembers how long and how hard Phil and Wilbur searched for the perfect fabric, the perfect weight, everything. Something that would make the texture-sensitive boy happy and comfortable. Techno had cried when he opened the box, rubbing the velvet against his cheek and looking like he was in heaven. It’s one of the last times he can remember seeing him cry. 

He pulls the cape closer to himself, letting the fur brush his cheeks again. His fingers curl around the small golden chains that hang from the front. Techno runs his hand through his hair once more, before disappearing briefly. He tries to blame his shivering on the fever and not his crippling fear of being alone again. 

His eyes well with tears regardless. He aches; now that he’s a bit more aware (kinda) he can feel the full effect of his headache, the sting of the cuts on his arms and thighs, how his ankle throbs with pain. He must have twisted it, though he can’t remember when. That’s fine. His memory has been bad for a while. 

“Here, drink this.” Techno presses a bottle into his hands, carefully closing his fingers around it. “It’ll help your injuries, and hopefully your fever too.” 

Obediently, Tommy drinks. Potions always taste weird, and feel just as weird; this one makes his mouth feel bubbly, like he took a too-big drink of soda, but it’s oddly warm, too. It tastes… not great, honestly. Kinda like watermelon and honey at the same time, as a weird, thick liquid. The flavors clash.

The effect isn’t as sudden as he expected it to be. Warmth spreads from his stomach to his chest and then out through his limbs, making his fingers and toes tingle slightly. In his fevered, tired state, it’s  _ very  _ funny, and he giggles weakly. 

“We tried to get all your things, but we were sneaking around. I hope we got everything.” Techno sets his pack down on the bed, next to Tommy’s legs. “Grabbed your Ender chest, too.” 

A shock of fear goes through him, and he raises his hands to his chest, fumbling for his compass. It was-- he put it on a chain so he could keep it safe, under his shirt, where is it-- 

It’s not there. His chest tightens with panic and a wheezy gasp leaves him. “Where is it?” he asks, looking up at his brother. “Where’s my compass?” 

“Compass…?” Techno asks, confusion written on his face for only a moment, before he smiles. He reaches into the pocket of his pants and pulls out the small device. “Here you go.”

Tommy reaches in and snatches it away. He doesn’t trust anyone else with it. 

He runs his finger over the arrow. Pointing to  _ his  _ Tubbo, always. 

“Thank you,” he says. The panic recedes. With it, his energy lowers-- he feels as drowsy as he did when he woke up again. Perhaps its the healing potion, making him rest so he can heal. Or maybe it’s just how sick he is. He isn’t sure how sick he really is, but he  _ knows  _ it’s not good.

“Are you hungry?” Techno asks, taking away the empty potion bottle and setting it aside. 

He sighs, holding his compass close to his chest. The chain is gone, but he can still hold it. “Not really,” he admits. He hasn’t eaten in a while, but there’s no gnaw of hunger in his belly. 

He can feel his brother’s heavy stare, before he huffs slightly. “You have to eat a little. I could feel how skinny you are when I carried you.” That’s more normal, for him-- his tone is smoother, more even, no longer so discomfortingly-comfortingly soft. It’s almost-teasing.

He nods along, because for once he’s in no mood to argue. He’s only getting more and more tired. He accepts it when he places a small bowl and a spoon into his hands. He’s sure the soup he eats is good, Techno’s a pretty decent cook, but it makes no impression on him. He’s just aware of how warm and heavy it feels in his mouth, how it makes him feel warm like the cape around his shoulders does. 

His movements are getting sluggish. 

The bowl is gently taken from his hands. He grabs his compass again, and moves to lay back down. He needs… to go back to sleep. He’s tired. So, so tired. 

Techno joins him again, sitting on the edge of his bed. He looks younger with his glasses on, he notes somewhat distantly. Maybe just because he wore them more as a kid, but with the thick frames on, Tommy can remember that Techno really isn’t all that older than him. Wilbur really isn’t--  _ wasn’t  _ either. They are/were adults, but only just. 

He snuggles under the blankets, holding the compass against him and keeping it close. His brother pulls the blankets up higher, returning the cape to its place atop him. It’s so heavy. He doesn’t wonder why Techno loved it so much, now; he’s always loved heavy clothes, and it feels good even to him. 

“Go back to sleep, Tommy,” Techno says quietly. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

His eyes slip closed. He isn’t sure if he’s dreaming anymore, but he doesn’t even care. He likes the comfort, the feeling of belonging. He’s missed this. He’s missed being around anyone but Dream, he’s missed being  _ touched  _ by anyone but Dream. 

While everything the masked man did had an undercurrent of manipulation, another meaning underneath the ‘kindness’, Techno’s actions seem… genuine. Techno isn’t one for that kind of manipulation. He doesn’t have the patience, really, for those kinds of games. 

So it’s real, then. He trusts him, with this. 

Techno’s fingers run through his hair again, nails gently scratching his scalp. For a flash of a second, he wishes Wilbur was there, even if its only his ghost. Ghostbur can sing, though his raspy, softer voice isn’t quite the same as before. He misses hearing him sing. 

“I miss Wilbur,” he says thickly, without even thinking about it. His tongue feels too big for his mouth. 

His hand pauses. “I do too,” he whispers, voice soft. In Tommy’s fuzzy brain, he thinks that’s the most grief-stricken he’s ever heard him. “I miss him too.” 

He sniffles. He doesn’t want to cry, because it’ll just make his headache worse and he’ll get a bad stuffy nose or something stupid like that. But on the inside, he wants to cry. 

“An’ I miss Tubbo,” he says, and he uncoordinatedly raises his compass to press his lips against the metal, wishing he could do the same to his best friend's forehead. As miserable as he’s becoming, he’s also beginning to drop off. His voice is coming out like syrup. “I miss everyone. I wanna go _home_ , Tech.” 

“I know, Tommy, I know.” Techno keeps petting back his hair, ceaseless in his comforting. “Go to sleep. We can talk about it in the morning.” 

Behind them, the door opens. A moment of panic strikes Tommy at the sound, and he isn’t sure why. 

( _ What if it’s Dream? _

_ Dream doesn’t know I’m here. _

_ Dream will be mad... _ )

“You’re back,” Techno says, but he doesn’t look away from Tommy. 

“I am. It’s snowing… we’re not going out again tonight.” That’s Philza, sounding  _ exhausted _ . He can hear him setting things down on the house’s surfaces, and his footsteps on the wooden floor. “Did Tommy ever wake up?” 

“For a bit,” he says. “I got him to eat, at least. Pretty sure he still has a fever… but I can’t tell.” Through his barely-cracked eyes, he can see one of Techno’s ears twitch. The little tic is funny, because that’s happened since he was young. 

“Let me see him.” Phil says. His footsteps approach the bed, and Techno moves away. After only a minute, he sits down in his place, his hand resting on his forehead. 

For some reason, he  _ immediately  _ gets choked up. He’s always been aware that Phil loves him, of course; he’s his dad, he raised him, took him in without even considering  _ anything  _ else. He loves him just the same, of course.

But by the time he was growing up, Phil was too busy, had too much to do, and had simply drifted away from him as he got older. (Wilbur had been there for more of his older childhood events. Wilbur gave him haircuts, put him to bed most nights, helped him with studying… Phil loved him, but Wilbur took more care of him. He definitely misses him.)

Like this, though, he gets a taste of what it would be have been like if Phil had stayed close to him as he became a teenager. He brushes his blonde hair back from his face and looks him over carefully. There is so much love and concern in his eyes that he feels small.

“Still a bit too hot,” he says, and he does the hairline-rubby thing with his thumb. He smiles weakly, slowly. “We’ll let him sleep a bit longer, and then find something to help with his fever.” He keeps talking, directing all his words to his older son, even as he leans down to kiss the top of Tommy's head.

Tommy stops being able to understand them, because he’s dozing off, drifting back to sleep. His headache has been replaced by more of that wool-brain feeling, and he can’t even keep his eyelids cracked open. 

He falls asleep, and for the first time in what feels like  _ ages _ , he feels safe. 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on tumblr @ slayerofboys <3


End file.
